


Pretty Things

by Twisted_Mind



Series: thick [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Always Female Stiles Stilinski, Biker Peter Hale, Body Image, Butch Peter Hale, Cis Female Stiles Stilinski, Daddy Kink, Dom Peter Hale, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/F, Female Peter Hale, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderqueer Character, Insecurity, Mirror Sex, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Strap-Ons, Sub Stiles Stilinski, Teasing, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 07:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29995740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: She whines, and Peter chuckles at her. “None of that, now, baby. You be good for me, and Daddy will make it worthwhile for you.”And, well. When they put it that way, maybe bra shopping is the right way to spend the afternoon.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: thick [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1831054
Comments: 33
Kudos: 135





	Pretty Things

**Author's Note:**

> WHAT IS UP, I AM BACK AND IT FEELS SO! DAMN! GOOD! Happy Friday, lovelies! I'm bringing you some more Butch Daddy Peter, because I feel like we could all use a little more of that in our lives. Big thanks go to my beautiful and patient enablers, Bunnywest, DiscontentedWinter, MrsRidcully (AKA Miss R), and the lovely Shey! 
> 
> Bit of housekeeping: Peter uses both she/her and they/them pronouns, which shift depending on her/their mindset, and do shift within this story. This fic also deals with the practical realities and mixed feelings about weight gain, but represents this as healthy and normal because it so often is.

“What do you mean, _none_?”

Stiles crosses her arms over her chest defensively at Peter’s raised eyebrows and incredulity. “It means none, zero, zilch, nada,” she snaps.

Peter takes a breath, and pinches the bridge of her nose. After a long moment, her hand drops, and she looks up. “I understand what ‘none’ means, but what I _don’t_ understand is how on earth you don’t own a single bra. You’re 22, for moon’s sake.”

Stiles shifts, and she tries not to grimace at the way she can feel her newly bigger boobs squish against her arms as she does. “It wasn’t exactly a deliberate choice, okay? It just sort of . . . happened.”

The flat look she gets says a whole lot. Stiles swallows, and looks at the floor. “Like, my mom died when I was a kid, right? And my dad—he would’ve taken me shopping, if I asked, but. I’ve always been on the small side, and I figured—why bother? Oversized tee shirts, or a plaid overshirt, a hoodie when it’s cold—it’s worked for me. I didn’t really need one. Hell, up until very recently, I could just layer a tank top under a dress shirt and call it a day, but.”

“But not anymore.” Peter sighs, but her face softens, and Stiles knows she gets it, more or less. “Well, at least if I come with you, then I’ll know what size to buy surprise lingerie in for later.”

And that’s—wait. _What_?

“What?” she blurts out.

Peter raises an eyebrow at her, the corner of her mouth trying to twitch up into a smirk. “Is that a no on surprise lingerie, then? I’m not to get you things that I think you’ll look pretty in, just so I can take them off you?”

“That’s just—not what I said,” Stiles mutters. “That was not fair, oh my God.”

“Yes or no, baby?”

“Ugh, fine!” she half-yells, throwing her arms in the air. “You can come with me if you’re actually in town when I go.”

At that, Peter’s eyes narrow. “Don’t you have a job interview next week?”

She freezes at that, which is, apparently, the wrong answer, because Peter’s face does that weird thing where she purses her lips and then licks her teeth and makes that bizarrely filthy sound before nodding. “Right then. Go put on whatever outfit you plan to wear to the interview, and then meet me in the parking lot.”

“What?” Stiles thinks her jaw might be dangling down to her recently-acquired tits. “Now? We’re doing this _right now_?”

Peter holds her arms out, and Stiles is momentarily distracted by the forearms because of course Peter’s wearing a button-up and of course it’s been cuffed just below her elbows. “You need a decent bra before your job interview, I’ve agreed to come with you, and, as you so helpfully pointed out, my job doesn’t involve normal hours. Might as well go get this done now, because there’s no sense in putting it off.”

Stiles scowls, because unfortunately, her beloved pain-in-the-ass is right. “Fine. We’ll go to Walmart, and I’ll grab a couple of the fucking things, just to make you happy.”

That is, apparently, the last straw for Peter, because she glares for approximately point-five seconds before crouching down, wrapping her hands around the backs of Stiles’s thighs, and neatly standing up with Stiles tossed over her unfairly-ripped shoulder.

Stiles is not ashamed of the fact that she squeaks, because that is a valid response to sudden and unprovoked manhandling.

Peter carries her down the hallway and puts her down in their—their! It’s been a month, and Stiles still isn’t over that yet—bedroom. When she’s back on her feet and steady, Peter tips her chin up. “Cut the bullshit, and tell Daddy what the problem is, here.”

She shivers, and her eyes close. This—Peter being Daddy and in charge outside of the bedroom, separate from sex—is still new, but the more they test drive it, the more she likes it. When she opens her eyes again, she can see by the set of Peter’s face that they’re in a very different frame of mind, and she maybe feels a little bad about that, about pushing Peter in that direction, but there’s relief in it, too, so she takes a deep breath and lets it all spill out.

“I—I’m embarrassed. At needing this, and not knowing how the sizing works, and being 22 and never having done this before. It feels—not wrong, but. I should know how to do this by now, shouldn’t I?” Her shoulders hunch, and she fixes her eyes on the floor. “I shouldn’t need my partner to come with me to help me figure this out.”

Rather than address any of that, Peter asks, “Is that everything, or is there more?”

And well. Stiles squirms, because a direct question like that—she can’t dodge it. Can’t lie outright, because she’ll get caught, and deflection isn’t an option. Peter doesn’t say anything, letting the silence hang and get worse and worse until finally she can’t help but mutter, “Feels weird. Having tits. Being this weight.”

She hears a sighed, “Oh, _baby_ ,” and then she’s being tugged in against Daddy’s chest, held tight as Peter makes low, soothing sounds.

Once she feels less wobbly, Peter’s hands hold her shoulders and move her away from their body so she can see their face. “There is nothing wrong with the weight you’ve put on. It’s healthy and normal to round out a bit from the twiggy teenager you were now that you’re in your early twenties, and I, for one,” their hands drop from her shoulders to her ribs, flowing down to the dip of her waist and back out along the bigger flare of her hips, “am a very big fan of the new curves you’ve got.”

She can’t help smiling a little. “You just like that my ass jiggles now when you smack it.”

Peter’s hands drop to said ass, and Stiles _meeps_. “I’m also a fan of that, yes.”

She pushes her face against Daddy’s shoulder, and they let her, wrapping their arms around her waist. “You’d better be. ‘S your fault, anyway.”

“How’s that, baby?”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you feeding me extra portions and baking ‘me cookies n shit,” she mumbles, but even to her own ears, it sounds fond.

“Mm, yes. You’ve uncovered my nefarious plot to feed you enough to keep up with me in the bedroom,” Peter deadpans, and Stiles hides her smile against their shirt. “Such a shame you require calories to service me sexually.”

Stiles laughs, but also tips her face up to give a coy look. “I could service you now, if you wanted?”

Peter hums, one hand drifting from her lower back to cup her ass. “Tempting, but we have clothing to acquire, so it’ll have to wait.”

She whines, and Peter chuckles at her. “None of that, now, baby. You be good for me, and Daddy will make it worthwhile for you.”

And, well. When they put it that way, maybe bra shopping is the right way to spend the afternoon.

***

“You’re trying to kill me,” Stiles whines.

Daddy tuts, zipping her into the leather jacket they bought for her last year. “Pretty much the opposite, actually.”

She makes the biggest, saddest, most pleading puppy eyes she can as Daddy puts her helmet on and adjusts the strap so it’s snug. “You know what the leathers, and your bike _do_ to me, Daddy.”

It gets her a smug, toothy smile. “I do, baby. I want you to remember while we’re shopping _exactly_ what’s waiting for you once we get home.”

“But we’re home _now_.” She’s being a brat, and she knows it, but _horny_.

Peter ignores her, turning away and swinging one shapely leg over the motorcycle that is the bane of Stiles’s life. “You can either be my good girl, and get on the bike so Daddy can spoil you with pretty things that I peel you out of with my teeth, or you can nix the outing, and spend the evening bound and gagged while I edge you. Your pick.”

Stiles’s mouth falls open, and an outraged noise almost spills out before she snaps her jaw shut. She hates being edged, hates how desperate and needy it makes her, sometimes for days after being finally allowed to come. There’s a lot of sass she could give in response to that, but she decides it’s not worth it, and straddles the bike behind Daddy instead, wrapping her arms around the trim waist and pressing up against the broad, leather-covered back.

“Let’s go,” she mutters, and she knows she sounds sulky, but she really, really doesn’t want to do this. Surely she can be a braless hippie twig forever?

“Good choice.”

And then the bike is roaring to life, and Stiles has to close her eyes as the vibrations between her legs, the scent of leather, and the heat of Peter against her chest send a gush of fresh slick into her panties, which are absolutely done for. The best she can really hope for is that her jeans don’t end up ruined before they make it back.

By the time they reach the mall, Stiles is panting against Daddy’s shoulder and fighting not to shake. To Peter’s credit, they don’t rush her, waiting patiently until she can un-octopus from around them and dismount, sure her legs will hold her.

Daddy’s smiling indulgently as they remove her helmet, storing it with theirs before securing the bike. “Doing alright, baby?”

She grunts, knowing they can smell the _want_ burning under her skin and the wet patch in her underwear. Especially now that they’re not on the bike and getting ventilated at 40mph.

Daddy laughs at her and starts walking towards the entrance. Stiles follows and, because she’s already stupidly horny in public, admires their shapely ass in those skinny jeans. And also their legs in said jeans. And the knee-high leather boots.

She’s so busy watching her favourite bubble butt that she doesn’t realize where Peter’s leading her until she smells the shop and notices that it’s not the generic big box store smell. When she looks up and sees the sign for _Jardin de Fleurs_ , her brain makes the screechy-brake noise and she freezes in place.

“Peter?”

“Mm?” Peter pauses and looks over their shoulder at her. 

“Uh. Are we lost? Heading to the food court first, maybe?” Please let them be lost. Please let curly fries and the post-apocalyptic pseudo-comfort of a big box store be in her future.

Daddy wraps an arm around her, steering her forward with a firm hand at her lower back. “No, baby. We're in the right place. You deserve good quality underthings that will fit you properly and last. Things you can feel good in.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything to that, because she can’t, really. Daddy is being sweet, and she’s still uncomfortable, but she definitely agreed to this because, once again, she let her pussy do her thinking for her. It’s a problem. Not one she’s likely to solve while she’s still with Peter, though, for reasons of werewolfly cheating and also extreme hotness.

She stays quiet right up until they’re approached by a young sales assistant with a perfect blonde ponytail and winged eyeliner. “Hi there! Can I help you with anything today?”

Stiles opens her mouth to politely refuse, but Peter beats her to it. “Yes, actually. Could I borrow your tape measure? My girl here is in desperate need of some quality bras, but she’s a bit skittish of being touched by strangers.”

The young woman’s face creases briefly in sympathy. “Of course, that’s no problem. Follow me.”

Once again, she’s guided forward by a firm hand at her lower back, and she’s torn between grateful and annoyed. But then the sales assistant hands Peter a rolled-up measuring tape by the change rooms, and she feels—scared, all of a sudden, because what if nothing here will fit her? What If her numbers are bad? Is it possible to have bad boob measurements?

“Easy, baby, I’ve got you,” Peter murmurs, cupping the back of her neck, and she takes a long, shuddery breath, letting Peter steer her into the change room.

The lock snicks into the place, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders. “Promise you won’t be disappointed?” she blurts out. It’s stupid, but Peter’s been aware of her particular brand of stupid since literally day one, so she trusts the mocking will be saved for later.

Naturally, Peter quirks an eyebrow at the question. “Of course not. Now, strip off. I’m going to measure you properly so we don’t have to fuck around with three different cup sizes before finding you the right one.”

“Properly?”

Peter hums. “When you come in for a bra fitting, they typically measure you over your clothes, with the assumption that you’re already wearing a bra. But you don’t wear two bras in layers, and they often don’t measure high enough up the ribcage to get an accurate band measurement, because who wants a stranger touching them like that?”

Stiles shudders. “Yeah, no. No thank you.”

Peter gives a hungry smile. “Exactly why I’m here. Now strip, baby.”

Her cheeks burn, but she does as Daddy says, unzipping from her leather jacket, and hanging it, along with the cream button-up she was wearing under it, leaving her in just a white cotton tank top. She doesn’t expect their hands to come up and push the spaghetti-straps down her shoulders, but she lets herself be moved until her arms are free and her tank top is bunched around her waist. “Okay, now what?”

Daddy uncoils the tape measure with a flick of their wrist. “Now, I need you to lift your arms. They don’t have to go right over your head, but far enough away from your body that I can measure what needs to be measured properly.”

Stiles complies, feeling like an idiot. She’s rewarded, though, when Daddy moves behind her, laying the measuring tape flat against her back and reaching around her to fold the tape measure over itself just below her breasts. “The first measurement that matters is this one,” they murmur into her ear. “It’s going to tell you what your band size is.” They pull the tape measure away from her skin, and hold it up to show where their thumb lies. “Your ribcage is twenty-nine and a half inches. Bra bands go up in even numbers, so when you’re in-between, the general advice is to round up. That means we should be looking at the 30 bands when we start browsing, though if the fit of them is too tight, we can always try the 32 bands.”

“Uh huh.” If she’s breathy, Daddy doesn’t call her on it. Probably because they can smell what, exactly, they’re doing to her. Even the math isn’t enough to dial down the need throbbing in time with her pulse.

Need that only gets more intense when those wicked hands she loves so much move over her breasts, crossing the chilly measuring tape over her nipples. Daddy chuckles at her squeak. “Sorry, baby—you have to measure the widest part of the breasts for this next part, and for you, that’s right over these,” one of their thumbs brushes over her nipple, and Stiles bites her lip so she doesn’t moan.

The measuring tape tightens for a moment, and then falls away. “Hmm. Thirty-three inches. That’ll make this interesting.”

Stiles doesn’t get it, and makes a confused noise.

Daddy manoeuvres her arms back through the straps of her tank top as they explain. “The quirky thing about bras is that cup sizes aren’t equivalent.”

“They aren’t?”

“No.” Peter slides her I’m A Professional shirt up her arms, and then moves in front of her to begin buttoning it. “Cup size is determined by the inches of difference between your ribs and your breasts. One cup size per inch is the rule of thumb, although every manufacturer has their own set of standards, and even different models of bras from the same manufacturer might fit differently.”

Stiles is too dumb and horny for this shit. “Uh, okay. So—what does that mean for me, exactly?”

“Because one inch equals roughly one cup size, we’re going to have to try a wider range of bra sizes to get one that’s just right for you because you have a three and a half inch difference. You might find a C-cup in one style fits comfortably, but need to go up to a D-cup in another.”

“A D-cup?!” Stiles’s jaw is hanging open. She does _not_ have D-cup tits!

Daddy just chuckles and leads her out of the changing room, Stiles’s leather jacket draped over one arm. “Mhm. Most women are wearing the wrong bra size, so people tend to think that a D-cup is this absolutely huge set, but in reality, it’s a very lovely, pleasant amount. Just right to fit in Daddy’s hand.” The smirk they flash at her is deeply, deeply unfair.

Stiles is going to demand all of the orgasms when they get home for putting up with this. Seriously. All of them.

***

She ends up with four new bras, all somehow, D-cups, and all shockingly pretty—decorated with ribbon bows or rhinestones, lace or roses, all in pastels or dark grey or black, none of the drab neutrals she sees in Walmart. Daddy insists she wear one home after they’ve paid, and she was so horny she agreed, ducking back into the change room to wiggle into one, which is probably also when she ended up with several pairs of new underwear, also in pretty colours and decorated with stupidly-beautiful trim. She feels almost guilty for owning it—or would, if Peter hadn’t pointed out that they own lots of pretty underthings for their more feminine days. And that Stiles likes them in those pretty things just as much as she likes them in boxer-briefs and sports bras.

She has to concede that it makes her feel better, knowing the pretty things aren’t just for her, but she’s not graceful about it. Daddy laughs and lands a tap on her ass for the cheek. It’s not exactly a punishment, but the ride back on the motorcycle might as well be, because the renewed gushing of her _very_ needy girl-parts officially become too much for her current clothes—by the time they get home, her jeans are sporting a small, but visible, damp patch.

Luckily, Daddy doesn’t drag out getting inside—one of their hands settles on the back of her neck, steering her forward as their other hand unlocks their apartment door. Stiles drops the bag from the lingerie shop the second she gets in, and kicks off her shoes while Daddy flips the deadbolt and sets the alarm systems. Once her shoes and jacket are off, she starts stripping right there in the hallway, because she’s not above playing dirty when her empty cunt is throbbing in time with her pulse and she’s been teased for over an hour.

“Eager, are we?”

Stiles throws a glare their way and keeps stripping. “You know the answer to that question, you have a functioning nose.”

Daddy chuckles. “I do, and gods, but you smell,” their eyes flutter shut as they drag a deep breath in, “absolutely delicious.”

Normally, she’d make a quip about how someone should come eat her, then, but she’s been on-edge too long to really enjoy that sort of softer pleasure. So instead, she starts backing down the hallway towards their bedroom, murmuring, “Should come ‘n get me, then, prove you’re not all talk.”

She pulls her tank top off over her head, and goes to throw it at them, but of course Daddy catches it. It leaves her in just her new bra and ruined panties, which they’re staring at avidly as they stalk down the too-short hallway. “Drop those,” they murmur, “but leave the bra.”

She obeys, because why wouldn’t she?

As soon as they hit the floor, Daddy’s ushering her not into the bedroom, but the bathroom, crowding her with their body until she’s backed up against the counter. Daddy leans in close, their cheek pressed to hers as they turn on the taps behind her. “I’m going to wash my hands,” they husk, and she can hear that, “and then I’m going to bend you over this counter and make you watch as I fuck you in your pretty new bra.”

Stiles’s breath hitches at the thought, and her heart starts to pound.

Even if they weren’t a werewolf, Daddy is close enough to pick up on her reaction. “Yeah, baby. Gonna show you how perfect you are when you’re writhing on my cock.”

And then Daddy’s moving away from her to dry their hands, and she turns to face the mirror without being prompted. It earns her a pleased smile, and she moves with Peter’s hands as they push her down, bending her over the counter until her hands are braced at the base of the mirror—which is reflecting the way her new, lacy bra very flatteringly cups her new, fuller breasts—and her ass pushed out. She feels deliciously slutty like this, and moans, head hanging between her shoulders, when Daddy knees her legs further apart.

“That’s it. That’s my good girl.”

Their thumbs pull apart her folds, revealing how sticky-wet she is. She can feel it smeared against the tops of her inner thighs, so she knows she must look wrecked already.

“Oh, baby,” they breathe, almost reverent except for all the lust. “You need Daddy’s cock in there so bad, don’t you?”

“Please,” she mewls, unashamed. She’s been waiting too long to be anything else.

Two of Daddy’s fingers sink inside, briefly, twisting and spreading to check that she’s open enough to take what they’re about to give her. Usually, she appreciates the care and concern, the respect given to her human body and limits, but right now, it’s just another tease, and she can’t help the way she whines.

“Look at me, baby.”

Stiles picks up her head to obey, to meet Daddy’s eyes in the mirror and watch as they unzip their jeans and pull out their pack-and-play—the thick one—and bites her lip. Daddy chuckles. “Yeah, I know you’re hungry for it. And now,” they hold her open with one hand and guide the tip of their cock inside her with the other, “you’re gonna take it.”

And she does—the slide easy and the stretch perfect, and she sighs at the way it fills her up, easing the heavy ache. _This_. This is exactly what she needed, and she rolls her hips back as Daddy starts to thrust, smooth and slow, cock dragging against her g-spot in a hypnotic rhythm.

Right up until Daddy’s sticky hand slides over her hip, their palm low on her belly and the tips of their fingers teasing against her clit as their other hand slides under her arm to cup her throat, pulling her upward until her spine is bowed and she can see them both in the mirror, including the way Daddy’s cock is sliding in and out of her cunt.

She only has a moment before Daddy’s hips start snapping hard, their hands on her belly and throat—and hers on the counter—the only reason she doesn’t slam into the mirror at the force of it, and her mouth falls open because it’s _so good_. It’s hard, maybe harder than Peter’s ever fucked her before, and if she wasn’t wet and wide-open and used to taking Daddy’s cock it might be too much, but as it is, it’s just mind-meltingly good. Because Peter’s still in their motorcycle jacket, and the buttery soft leather is brushing against her back and hip and chest where Daddy’s bracing her, and there’s filthy-wet sounds as their cock moves inside her with every snap of their hips against her ass—the sound muted by the fact Daddy’s still in their jeans.

“Look at what a pretty thing you are, taking me so well, so perfect for Daddy,” Peter whispers, and she tries to force her eyes to focus past the pleasure sparking hot and growing heavy between her hips.

She’s not prepared for what she sees—the way she’s flushed down to her chest, the glitter of her eyes, the way her mouth is hanging slut-slack and her entire body rocks with the force of Daddy’s thrusts. She didn’t realize her thighs and breasts and butt were rippling with the impact, that she was grinding her hips back, seeking more, that she’s starting to shake as she gets closer to coming.

“Come for Daddy, baby,” Peter mutters breathlessly, and she does, because how could she not?

Daddy works her through it, not letting up until she’s half-collapsing into the sink as waves of _heatpleasurerelief_ wash over her. She’s trembling and panting, praying her legs will hold her, when Daddy carefully turns her around and guides her down to the floor. She slumps back against the bathroom cabinet gratefully.

It also gives her a prime view of Peter’s hands as they unzip, shoving jeans, harness, and boxers down to their knees before standing over her, one foot on either side of her thighs.

“You gonna be sweet to me, baby?” Daddy asks, one hand sliding along her jaw and into her hair.

And that—that’s not a real question. “Yes, Daddy.” She leans forward without hesitation, because it’s obvious what Daddy wants—and, now that she’s not drowning in her own frustrated neediness, she wants to make them feel good, too.

So she nuzzles at their mound until she can seal her lips around their clit, knowing how much they like it when she doesn’t use her hands. She suckles, tongue working softly, and is rewarded with a hand cupping the back of her head and a moaned, “Yeah, suck me baby, just like that.”

And Stiles does—lets Daddy pull her in close with the hand at the back of her neck and grind against her face as she suckles and slurps and tongues delicately at their clit, heat blooming in her chest at the way Peter’s breaths stutter and catch, growing clipped and ragged as they get closer. She waits, drags it out a little, wanting to make it good—because for as much as she brats, sometimes, she really does want to be good for Daddy, wants to be their good girl and make them feel _good_ and _warm_ and _loved_ —before she moves her mouth so she can massage Daddy’s clit with the broad, flat part of her tongue while teasing at their opening with the tip.

It takes about five seconds before Peter starts shaking and whispering, “Oh fuck, goddamn your perfect mouth—” coming with a thready whine that doesn’t sound entirely human.

Stiles works them through it, only stopping once Daddy pulls away, the fingers in her hair relaxing and sliding down to rest on the back of her neck, and she nuzzles their thigh, pleased with herself, and knowing Peter will be pleased at the way they’ve smeared their scent all over her face.

Sure enough, when Daddy tips her face up, a soft smile is curling their lips. “Didn’t I tell you I’d make it worthwhile?”

Stiles wrinkles her nose once the meaning of the words filters through her orgasm-fogged brain. “I plead the Fifth.”

It gets her a fond huff, and then Peter’s bending down to hook their hands under her arms and pull her to her feet, which is great, because the floor is cold but she wasn’t going to be getting up off it on her own for a while yet. “You do that, baby.”

**Author's Note:**

> The Twist does [Tumbl](https://queerfictionwriter.tumblr.com/)


End file.
